r-  '    -n.  ^i„  ^r.'^v  Vie  kept  out 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE. 

The  Yale  Series  of  Younger  Poets  is  designed  to  afford  a  publishing 
medium  for  the  work  of  young  men  and  women  who  have  not  yet 
secured  a  wide  public  recognition: -It  will  include  only  such  verse  as 
seems  to  give  the  fairest  promise  for  the  future  of  American  poetry — 
to  the  development  of  which  it  is  hoped  that  the  Series,  may  prove  a 
stimulus.  Communications  concernin^,7rianuscripts  should  be  addressed 
to  the  Editor  of  the  Yale  Series  of  Ydunger  Poets,  in  care  of  the  Yale 
University  Press,  New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

VOLUMES  ALREADY  ISSU|:D 

I.  The  Tempering.  By  Howard'Buck.  %  ' 
II.  Forgotten  Shrines.  By  Jok%:Chipmajfi  Farrar. 

III.  Four  Gardens.  By  David  Os^hrne  Haj^ilton. 

IV.  Spires  and  Poplars.  By  Alfr0Raymo7id,  Bellinger. 

V.  The  White  God  and  Othe;r.  Foems. -B^y   Thomas  Caldecot 

Chubb.  .\'\ 

VI.  Where  Lilith  Dances.  Byt  ^arl  Macleod  Boyle. 
VII.  Wild  Geese.  By  Theodore- WlBanks,  Jr. 
VIII.  Horizons.  By  Viola  C.  WMe.\ 
IX.  Wampum  and  Old  Gold.  By  Hervey  Allen. 
X.  The  Golden  Darkness.  By  Oscar  Williams. 
XI.  White  April.  By  Harold  Final. 
XII.  Dreams  and  a  Sword.  By  Medora  C.  Addison. 

XIII.  Hidden  Waters.  By  Bernard  Raymund. 

XIV.  Attitudes.  By  Paul  Tanaquil. 

XV.  The  Last  Lutanist.  By  Dean  B.  Lyman,  Jr. 
XVI.  Battle-Retrospect.  By  Amos  Niven  Wilder. 
XVII.  Silver  Wands.  By  Marion  M.  Boyd. 
XVIII.  Mosaics.  By  Beatrice  E.  Harmon. 
XIX.  Up  and  Down.  By  Elizabeth  Jessup  Blake. 


LIBRARY 
Connecticut  Agricultural  College 

Vol.        5  i7:>  /^ 

Class  No.           BII.SB5Q 

Cost    fvLU-   (^.    R.    SouuJ 

Dati 

t)U^     .?/           193d 

0       ■                      1 

hbl 

brti 

III 

III  III 

LS3    DDM 

storage 

III  ill 

TE3E2 

122 
}wn 

5 

\Up 


and  Down 


/ 


ELIZABETH  JESSUP  BLAKE 


P^^^^ 


NEW  HAVEN  •  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON  .  HUMPHREY  MILFORD  •  OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXXIV 


gJL5 

.3  5T 


COPYRIGHT,    1924,   BY 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES    OF   AMERICA 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

The  author  wishes  to  express  her  thanks  to 
the  Smith  College  Monthly  for  permission 
to  reprint  several  of  the  poems  in  this  book. 


TO 
J.  T.  A.  and  R.  L.  A. 


CONTENTS. 

"Within  and  Without" 

Soulless  Baydreeah 

In  a  Bedouin's  Garden 

To  a  Weeping  Birch 

One  of  Lalage's  Lovers 

The  Wilful  Sprite 

To  Dogwood  Blossoms 

Snow  Trees   . 

Shepherd's  Night  Song 

Starlight  in  Syria   . 

X  Y  Z 

The  Shepherd's  Flute 

Zahleh 

Libnan 

Glaucon  to  Thesbia 

On  the  Heights.  1915 

Sea  Fog 

Noli  Tangere 

To  a  Wild  Rose     . 

Ode  to  Loneliness  . 

Zest       . 

Happiness 

King  David 

Spring  in  New  York  City 

Wind  Drift  . 

Bedouin  Lullaby     . 

A  Hill  Arab 

Syria     . 

Memories 

October 

Wind  Flowers 

The  Answer  . 

For  a  Fair  Lady's  Burial 

Scotch  Broom 

Thanksgiving  Day 

There  is  no  Time  . 

My  Thoughts 

The  Beech  Tree  Valley 


"WITHIN  AND  WITHOUT" 

IT  took  Without  to  make  Within  a  heaven, 
For  though  Within  held  all  men's  treasures  safe, 
Without,  at  first,  was  tantalizing,  mild ; 
All  blue,  with  clear  far  reaches  spaced  with  clouds 
Or  interrupted  by  a  mountain  screen 
That  tempted — "Up  and  climb  and  look  beyond !" 
With  such  a  rival  four  straight  walls  seemed  gloom 
And  it  was  then  Within  was  but  a  room. 

And  then  Without  grew  restless,  sighing,  wild; 
Dark  banks  of  grey  shut  in  from  mountain's  crown 
To  low  surrounding  hills  a  strange  new  world ; 
The  air  was  filled  with  war  songs ;  rain  like  whips 
Wielded  by  fury  winds,  relentlessly 
Lashed  down  on  trees  and  fields  and  homes  of  men 
Who  hurried  in,  made  fast  against  the  storm. 
Then  looked  about  them  slowly,  till  they  saw 
Their  lamplight  shining  on  the  driven  rain — 
And  heaven  was  bounded  by  a  window  pane. 


SOULLESS  BAYDREEAH 

SOULLESS  Baydreeah  am  I, 
In  the  khan  on  the  lonely  hills 
I  live  with  the  sheikh  and  my  son 
And  a  faith  that  kills. 

Mohammedan  fellahin, 
We  live  by  the  fruit  of  our  toil 
And  I  am  yoked  with  an  ass 
To  plough  the  soil. 

Mohammed  says  men  have  souls 
But  women,  Ajellak  Allah! 
What !  souls  for  beasts,  for  the  wife 
Of  a  poor  fellah'? 

Yet  I  long  for  a  soul !  for  a  soul 
Like  the  calm  of  a  Lebanon  night 
When  the  hills  sleep  in  mighty  content 
In  the  pale  starlight, — 

No,  the  hills  are  a  rolling  waste. 
The  mountains  are  naked  despair. 
Up,  reaching  up  for  their  souls 
In  age-long  prayer. 

And  soulless  Baydreeah  am  I, 
Glad  to  live  for  the  sake  of  my  men. 
Plodding  from  morning  till  night. 
Then  plodding  again. 


10 


IN  A  BEDOUIN'S  GARDEN 

OLD  Age  in  her  faded  garments, 
With  her  back  to  the  glinting  sea, 
Sat  among  flaming  poppies, 
Under  a  leafless  tree ; 
Budding  Spring  sang  round  her, 
Round  her  and  you  and  me. 

O  Spring,  and  you,  Old  Old  Woman, 
You  are  ancient,  silent,  and  wise. 
And  you  work  with  a  wordless  patience 
And  smile  far  back  in  your  eyes ; 
But,  Spring,  you  are  young  as  the  poppies ! 
And  red  as  their  petals  that  fall 
In  the  wind  from  the  orange  garden 
With  its  watch-tower  on  the  wall. 


11 


TO  A  WEEPING  BIRCH 

NEVER  as  a  trusted  mast  for  a  straining  sail 
Shall  you  hear  the  seaman's  song,  shouting  on  the  gale ; 
Never  stretch  from  wall  to  wall,  as  oaken  rooftrees  go, 
Guarding  seamen's  homes  from  harm  while  the  tempests  blow. 
Never  have  you  seen  the  sea,  nor  watched  the  skimming  sails — 
Lone  you  stand  all  silver  white,  shining  through  your  veils. 
Woodland  Vestal,  raising  high  suppliant  arms  to  heaven, 
Do  you  sigh,  "Be  merciful — naught  to  me  is  given"  ? 
Naught  but  dreams  and  fancies  fleet  tangle  in  your  drooping 

veils. 
Stars  and  dewdrops  glisten  there  when  the  daylight  fails. 
Woodland  Vestal,  sigh  and  sigh — raise  your  arms  to  heaven — 
Sigh  for  purest  happiness  all  to  you  is  given ; 
Souls  despondent,  looking  up,  glory  in  your  loveliness — 
Beauty  leads  to  heaven. 


12 


ONE  OF  LALAGE'S  LOVERS 

MY  lyre  sings  high, 
High  sings  my  lyre, 
My  heart  would  fly, 

My  thoughts  go  higher. 
My  heart  is  bound, 

My  thoughts  are  free, 
I  gave  all  but  my  thoughts 
To  Lalage. 


13 


THE  WILFUL  SPRITE 

I  PIPED  to  you  on  the  pipes  of  Pan 
At  the  edge  of  the  woods  at  the  edge  of  day, 
You  came,  you  danced,  a  touch — ,  you  ran — 
Or  changed  to  a  quivering  balsam  spray. 

I  piped  to  you  on  the  pipes  of  Pan 
At  the  edge  of  the  woods,  at  the  edge  of  night, 
You  came,  you  danced,  a  touch — ,  you  ran — 
Or  changed  to  a  shimmer  of  pale  starlight — . 

I  piped  to  you  on  the  pipes  of  Pan 
When  over  the  trees  came  the  dawn's  faint  glow,- 
Were  you  in  the  breezes  that  whispered  and  ran  ? 
Must  you  ever  come  dancing,  only  to  go  ? 


H 


TO  DOGWOOD  BLOSSOMS 

LIFTED  on  wandering,  sweet-scented  airs, 
^  Pale  clouds  adream  in  your  woodlands  awaking 
Aloof  from  the  world  and  its  manifold  cares, 
Your  beauty  is  innocent  witchery,  making 
A  song  writ  in  petals,  a  page  of  delight. 
Bird-songs  in  flower  notes  wistful  and  white ! 


15 


SNOW  TREES 

THE  frosty  wraiths  of  fairy-fingered  trees 
Stoop  down  to  touch  the  hurried  passer-by 
With  heaven's  whiteness.  And  the  awe-stilled  breeze 
On  soundless  wing  so  softly  passes  by 
It  is  as  though  an  angel  breathed  a  sigh, 
And  earth-bent  man  lifts  up  his  head  unknowing 
Why  suddenly  new  thoughts  are  in  him  growing. 


16 


SHEPHERD'S  NIGHT  SONG 

IN  the  fold  that  I  built  with  my  hands 
Safeguarded  by  bowlder  and  thorn 
Huddle  my  sheep  with  their  lambs  asleep, 
From  sunset  till  early  morn. 

On  a  mountain-top  lone  is  the  fold, 
Its  doorway  faces  the  sea; 
There  do  I  sit  while  the  black  bats  flit 
And  the  winds  and  the  stars  rove  free. 

There  do  I  sit  with  my  dog  and  fire, 
My  fire,  my  dog,  and  the  sky. 
While  mystery  fills  the  valleys  and  hills 
And  sighs  through  the  pines  near  by. 


17 


STARLIGHT  IN  SYRIA 

WARM  is  the  breath  of  night  with  heat  of  day ; 
Horizon  line  alone  'cuts  the  still  blue 
Of  sea's  dark  shadow  from  its  canopy 
Embroidered  all  with  stars  as  thick  as  bees 
That  overswarm  a  clover  field  in  June. 
And  almost  like  the  very  voice  of  dark 
Rise  mingled  sounds  of  nature,  ringing  sweet: 
Full-throated  choruses  of  froggy  choirs 
And  for  an  undertone  the  song  of  sea 
Languishing,  rippling,  murmuring,  musical, — 
For  the  lone  sea  is  hushing  off  to  sleep 
Its  little  waves,  and  sweetly  near  at  hand, 
The  garden's  width  away,  a  cadenced  drop 
Into  the  brimming  Oriental  pool 
Makes  for  the  sleeping  roses,  lullaby. 

And  while  the  breath  of  night  is  hot  with  day 

And  while  Orion  seeks  to  bow  him  low 

To  lose  himself  beneath  the  western  rim 

Of  the  sea's  shadow,  still  thine  heart  and  hear. 

List  how  the  concerts  of  a  thousand  frogs 

Choiring  in  unison  antiphonal 

Do  bid  us  note,  as  suddenly  they  end, 

How  night  is  still,  yet  rich  as  memory 

With  beauty  set  in  silence,  sung  in  sound. 

And  hushed  to  quietness  through  harmony. 


18 


XYZ 

WHEN  grapes  and  figs  are  honey-ripe 
And  cactus  fringed  with  spiny  pears, 
When  golden  melons  tempt  the  knife 
Then  eat  and  drink,  forget  your  cares. 
Cares  are  the  kin  of  hungry  hours 
When  wine  is  bitter  and  the  dry  bread  sours. 


19 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  FLUTE 

THERE  drifts  the  dust-white  flock  across  the  hill, 
The  sun-baked  hill  whence  heat  waves  tremble  high 
From  cracked,  red  earth  to  blur  the  glaring  sky ; 

In  listless  sleep  the  parched  world  gasps,  but  still 
My  heart  rests  cool,  as  by  some  shaded  rill ; 

For,  'spite  of  hot  Sirocco's  gusty  sigh. 
Tasting  a  plaintive  happiness  am  I  : 

Sweet  sympathy  with  hearts  that  love  the  trill 
And  inquiry  of  soft,  high  notes  let  slip 

To  fall  and  ripple  out  in  minor  key, 
A  reverie  that  makes  all  hearers  mute. 

That  music  is  the  golden  wine  I  sip. 
And  for  each  drop  of  purest  melody 

I  thank  thee,  Shepherd,  and  thine  humble  flute. 


20 


ZAHLEH 

OH,  land  of  dreams,  whose  upward  winding  paths 
Lead  out  a  wilding  through  the  hedgerows  old, 
Past  bending  reapers  and  the  broadening  swaths 

Of  Autumn's  harvest  ranked  in  lanes  of  gold, 
Past  tented  vineyards  redolent  of  wine 

Where  raisin  makers,  chanting  endless  runes. 
Spread  luscious  banquets  for  the  glowing  sun. 

Who,  month  by  month,  smiles  gloriously  benign, 
While  softly  to  herself  all  nature  croons, 

While  gnat  and  bird  and  bee  enrich  her  tunes 
And  God  and  man  and  nature  are  at  one. 


21 


LIBNAN 

(Lebanon) 

You  who  have  lands  you  love  know  well  the  pang 
That  calls  you  homeward  from  your  wanderings 
To  seek  a  well-loved  path,  to  see  one  tree, 
To  look  down  well-remembered,  hallowed  lanes. 
And  if  you  may  not  heed  the  call,  then  God 
Has  given  to  exiled  man  that  treasure  ship 
For  homeward  seeking  souls,  dear  Memory. 

So  in  your  love  of  homeland  hear  my  song 
And  peace  of  Lebanon  shall  rest  you  long. 

Libnan — ! 

You  hold  your  children  wheresoe'er  they  go. 
Though  worn  and  broken  in  the  smoke  and  mire. 
Where  clustering  city  stacks  make  country  winds 
Sick  with  the  reek  of  fevered  industry. 
Though  aliens  hemmed  about  with  poverty, — 
Still  in  their  eyes  there  burns  a  kindly  fire — 
Their  hearts  are  held  in  spell  where'er  they  go. 

Your  strangers,  too,  you  hold  in  that  same  chain 

That  binds  and  links  the  sturdy  Libanese, 

That  draws  them  back  to  rocky  paths  again 

From  North  from  South,  from  mighty  lands  of  Wealth 

In  every  stage  of  dearth,  success,  and  health ; 

Though  they  go  far,  back  to  your  mother-knees 

They  come  or  long  to  come.  You  hold  them  so. 

Since  brown  Phoenicians  tracked  the  "sail-winged  sea" 

With  silver  wakes  all  interlaced  with  foam 

When  Empires  through  kaleidoscopic  maze 

Sought  to  enthrall  you  with  their  laws  and  ways. 

Your  charm  bewitched  them  till  they  called  you — Home, 

And  when  they  left  you  'twas  reluctantly. 


22 


O  Lebanon !  Great  David's  Greater  Soul 
Cried  out  in  love  to  your  eternal  calm 
That,  resting  like  God's  Sabbath  on  Sunnin, 
Unburdens  souls  of  care  and  hearts  of  fear, 
And  as  the  Soul  goes  where  the  eyes  have  seen 
And  God  to  mountain  lovers  seems  more  near 
So,  heirs  of  Lebanon's  unmeasured  balm. 
Keep  sweet  that  quiet  strength  and  keep  it  whole ! 

Where'er  you  live — for  you  are  spread  so  wide 

There  is  no  nationality  nor  trade. 

No  ocean,  lake,  or  sea  or  countryside 

That  knows  you  not — for  wanderers  were  you  made ! — 

Where'er  you  live,  O  high-born  Libanese, 

Think  well. — Have  you  not  heard — have  you  not  seen: 

The  sighing  of  wild  olive  in  the  wind. 

The  Januaries  when  the  hills  are  green  ^ 

The  stony  river  beds  that  pave  the  rough 

Deep  sweep  of  valleys  where  the  jackals  hide, 

The  dust  that  sheep  with  busy  little  feet 

Raise  thickly  on  the  road  and  down  the  street 

That  leads  through  some  mud  village  where  the  doors 

Stand  hospitably  open,  and  the  sweet 

Hot  fragrance  and  the  oven's  pattering  din 

Make  passers-by  long  for  the  loaves  within  *? 

And  think  again. — Think  how  the  shepherd  calls 

And  graceful  answers  come  from  all  the  walls — 

No  stranger  he,  nor  anyone  at  all. 

For  man  is  man  as  such  to  stand  or  fall 

You  know,  in  Lebanon  in  field  or  mart 

Men  trust  the  intuition  of  the  heart. 

Think — no,  not  think,  but  breathe  it  once  again — 
Breathe  the  pure  air  alive  with  daily  news 
Of  Zihri's  dinner,  Hadda's  parching  corn, 
Zareefy's  winter  store  of  sun-curled  figs 

23 


Or  drying  okra;  taste  the  pungent  sweet 

Of  bran-filled  air  that  blows  in  from  the  wheat 

Khalil  is  tossing  with  his  trident  prongs, — 

And  oh,  give  ear  and  heart  and  hear  the  songs — ! 

The  songs  of  Lebanon  are  whispering  still 
Eternal  unfulfilment,  inquiry, 
Sung  by  each  shepherd  to  the  listening  hill 
And  sung  by  lonely  hills  to  such  as  thee : 
Songs  every  loyal  heart  remembers  still. 
So  sweetly  plaintive,  souls  in  quest,  they  sing 
In  starlight  with  the  crickets  in  the  dark, 
A  living  lulling  rhythmic  music, — Hark ! 


Fresh  from  the  lips  that  last  drank  from  the  spring 

Which  cold  as  high  Kunaiseh's  snowy  crown 

Foams  from  its  rocky  cavern  and  then  flows 

Carrying  rugged  life  and  gracious  green 

Along  its  narrow  banks  till  lost  in  sand — 

Fresh  from  your  kinsman's  lips  may  fall  that  boon 

Greater  in  worth  than  all  of  Ophir's  gold. 

Ask  for  a  song,  a  song  of  old  Libnan, 

And  press  the  reeds  into  his  willing  hands 

And  bid  him  play  and  hush  the  room  to  hear. 

And  in  the  night  however  far  away 

You  shall  grow  solemn  with  your  memory. 

For  o'er  the  wall  the  mountain  boys  shall  peep. 

Then  bolder  grown,  shall  mock  the  shepherds'  call 

Soon  smothered  by  the  dust-cloud  of  the  sheep ; 

As  by  long  habit,  over  the  mud  wall 

Will  show  a  wistful  face,  half  veiled  in  white 

That  gazes  steadfastly  along  the  road 

To  where  the  valley  takes  it.  And  you  know 

She  faces  toward  the  sunset  with  the  hope 

That  that  great  hungry  West  that  took  her  dreams 

Along  with  you,  may  send  her  back  a  Man. 

24 


A  man  to  make  the  hills  at  one  again, 
A  man  too  big  for  prejudice  of  race, 
A  man  to  give  Libnan  her  rightful  place 
Among  the  other  mother-lands  of  men. 

O  Lebanon,  Great  David's  Greater  Soul 

Drew  strength  to  think  of  God  from  mountain  height, 

Keep  all  your  children  toiling  for  that  goal 

Exalted  through  the  ages,  till  the  might 

Of  lofty  consecration  to  the  God 

Worshiped  e'en  blindly  where  your  cedars  spread 

Shall  bring  your  sons  back  from  the  foreign  soil 

To  grow  with  you  and  spend  their  ardent  toil 

Not  only  in  the  fair  exchange  for  gold, 

But  building  finer  laws  and  making  true 

The  prophecy  that  Loyalty  shall  bless. 

The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose, 

And  Lebanon  be  ruled  in  nobleness. 


25 


GLAUCON  TO  THESBIA 

POPPIES  are  red, 
Skies  overhead 
Blue  as  a  turquoise 

Sungilded.  Fled 
Are  clouds  of  despair. 

Smile  to  me, 
There! 

See  how  that  poppy- 
Shines  in  your  hair 

Smile,  there. 
Once  more! 

Why  do  you  pore 
Solemn  and  sad*? 

The  world  lies  before! 


26 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS.  1915 

ROSE  and  grey  and  billowing  white, 
,  Mists  roll  in  from  the  sea, 
Drifting  in  under  sunset  light. 
Shutting  the  world  from  our  mountain  height, 
And  while  the  hills  are  lost  in  shroud 
We  are  the  kings  in  a  world  of  cloud. 

Silently  watch  while  the  vanishing  sun 

Withdraws  his  glory  and  gold 

Leaving  the  cloud  heads  one  by  one 
Till  it  sinks  to  rest,  and  the  day  is  done 

And,  through  the  fog  sea,  soft  and  slow, 

Rings  a  sunset  bell  from  the  world  below. 


27 


SEA  FOG 

SOUNDLESS  surf  on  a  homesick  shore, 
Billows  that  gather  your  forces  and  rise 
To  break  without  foamy  crest  or  roar 
Under  the  moonlit  skies, 
Tenuous  inlets  and  still,  white  bays 
That  engulf  and  enshroud  the  hamlets  and  trees, 
Is  there  a  longing  that  guides  your  ways. 
You  ghosts  of  inland  seas*? 
Haunting  the  hills  with  your  soft  embrace 
Do  you,  wraith  of  a  sea,  make  the  mountain's  dream 
That  the  floods  of  old  have  returned  to  their  place 
Once  more  to  plash  and  gleam  ? 
Silvery  mists  on  abandoned  shores 
Nature,  adream  at  her  artistry, 
Has  left  the  mountains  sad  no  more, 
With  pictured  memory. 


28 


NOLI  TANGERE 

FOLLOW  the  fleeting  vassals  of  the  morn, 
The  rose-winged  motes  that  cluster  but  to  fly- 
Even  as  they  flame  with  Sun's  resplendent  dye — 
And,  gilded,  melt  to  azure  airs,  whence  born 
Are  the  sweet  winged  moments  of  the  thorn : 
Those  woodland  prayers  no  ear  nor  human  eye 
Could  understand.  Theirs  is  such  privacy 
As  only  rudest,  blindest  heart  would  scorn : 
One  dewy  hour  with  petals  open  thrown 
To  woo  the  passing  breeze  and  bumbling  hum 
Of  furry  banded  bees  that  love  to  own 
The  honey  of  the  thorn-rose ;  till  they  come 
He  treads  on  sacred  ground  who  early  wakes 
All  breathless  lest  he  lose  the  transient  charm 
And  seeks  the  brier  rose  amid  the  brakes 
Before  the  weaving  gnat  with  drowsy  swarm 
Rises  in  answer  to  the  blue  fly's  horn 
That  starts  the  day  and  ends  the  early  morn. 


29 


TO  A  WILD  ROSE 

All  the  blush  of  the  dawn  and  the  sunset's  last  touch  of 
,/\.       farewell, 
All  the  hope  of  the  Spring  and  a  hint  of  the  Summer's  bright 

gold 
Folded  away  in  your  petals  of  exquisite  flame 
With  the  spiciest  fragrance  a  flower  was  given  to  hold. 


30 


ODE  TO  LONELINESS 

THEY  have  not  known  you  who  berate  you  so, 
They  have  not  chosen  you  as  friend  to  know, 
Sweet  winsome  maid  that  haunts  the  hilltop  crags 

And  gives  the  distant  view  a  keener  thrill, 
Companion  spirit  on  the  wild-rose  hill, 

Why  do  men  paint  you  as  the  queen  of  hags. 
Fit  only  to  invest  yourself  in  rags. 

Gifted  the  soul  with  fear  and  dread  to  fill. 
Potent  to  drive  to  madness  and  to  kill — ^ 

Such  know  you  not.  I  seek  you  where  the  flags 
Sway  in  the  cool  rush  of  a  mountain  spring. 

I  find  you  smiling  ere  the  sunrise  stains 
The  soft  grey  wings  of  dawn.  Your  silence  reigns 

At  even  when  the  mists  rise  from  the  plains. 

Vainly  men  crowd  to  touch  dear  Beauty's  dress ; 
Would  you  know  beauty,  then  know  loneliness. 


31 


ZEST 

LIFE,  thou  art  for  the  living ; 
/  Not  for  scorn 
God  made  the  bulbul 
And  the  whistling  thorn ; 
Not  for  such  dark  repining 
All  the  play 
Of  light  and  shadow 
On  a  cloudy  day. 
He  made  the  hills  for  laughter, 
Not  for  gloom, — 
And  valleys 

That  the  rivers  might  have  room 
To  dance  and  run 
And  wander  into  bays. 
And  trees  for  happy  shelter 
On  the  ways 

That  lead  from  home  to  labor, 
Then  to  rest. 
Life,  in  thy  fullest  living 
Thou  art  best. 


32 


HAPPINESS 

SOME  say  'tis  common,  found  where  homes  are  true ; 
Some  call  it  Youth,  and  others,  silver  grey, 
Call  it — "the  sunset  glow  at  end  of  day," — 
And  others  look  as  if  they  wish  they  knew. 
As  though  in  walking  through  their  fields  of  dew 
Someone  had  gone  before  and  dashed  away 
The  pearly  grapes  from  every  elfin  spray ! 
Tell  me,  are  they  who  know  of  her  so  few  ? 


33 


KING  DAVID 

HIS  childhood  knew  the  loneliness  of  hills, 
Grey  hills  that  flushed  to  fire-opal  glow, 
Or  softened  under  vines,  grew  white  with  snow, 
Or  laughed  in  rippled  gold  of  windswept  grain, 
Or  roared  with  avalanche  beneath  the  rain. 
He  knew  the  valleys  where  the  wild  folk  go ; 
He  knew  the  sweet  mad  loneliness  of  hills. 
And  mornings  with  the  earliest  birdling's  strain 
His  heart  sought  mountain  ridges  whence  the  plain 
Seemed  but  a  patched  cloak  sewn  with  silver  thread 
And  swiftly,  now,  his  pathway  upwards  led — 
Till  all  about  him  stalked  the  giants  grey, 
The  guardian  rocks  that  on  the  hilltops  stay. 
And  there  he  rested  him  aloof  and  still 
And  God  sent  loneliness  his  heart  to  fill. 


34 


SPRING  IN  NEW  YORK  CITY 

FOR  sheer  sweet  beauty 
Give  me  trees  in  Spring ! 
Then  prayer  is  instinct  in  the  human  breast 
When  every  twig  a  dreamer  lies  at  rest 
Among  its  infant  leaflets  that  so  cling 
In  waxen  newness,  as  the  moist  new  wing 
Of  any  butterfly. 
You  guessed  that  green 
On  yonder  boxhedge  row, 
That  flush  of  maple  boughs  is  but  a  glow — 
Nay,  Spring  has  worked  her  miracle  again. 
Made  sacred  every  street  or  park  or  lane 
That  has  a  budding  tree,  or  growing  thing ; 
For  sheer  sweet  beauty,  give  me  trees  in  Spring. 


35 


WIND  DRIFT 

AND  all  about  me  in  the  street,  a  crowd 
L  Of  faces  hovered,  wondering,  longingly ; — 
How  like  fair,  lilting  butterflies  in  cloud 
Driven  by  land  winds  out  upon  the  sea, 
Seeking  to  reach  the  fast  receding  lee 
Of  some  high  vessel  merchantman,  as  proud 
As  any  galleon  with  its  gleaming  shroud 
Flung  to  the  winds ;  those  winds  that  cruelly 
Toss  the  sweet  golden  motes  of  living  light 
Now  up,  now  down,  in  headlong  ecstasy 
Till,  tired  of  wing,  they  long  to  cease  their  flight. 
Shores,  masts,  are  far  away, — below,  the  sea. 
The  wind  fails,  down  they  droop. 
Sweet  living  light! 
Lost  in  the  sated  ocean's  depth  of  night. 


36 


BEDOUIN  LULLABY 

THE  clouds  sleep  on  the  high  grey  hill, 
And  the  sea  in  silver  sleeps ; 
An  eagle  soaring  high  and  still 
Watch  in  the  noon-tide  keeps ; 
The  sun  forgets  that  in  the  West 
In  the  West  is  his  journey  done. 
He  sleeps  aloft  in  the  white  hot  sky, 
Sleep  too,  my  restless  one. 
Soon  the  winds  of  the  afternoon 
Will  sing  to  the  high  grey  hill. 
Soon  the  sea  will  dance  for  thee. 
Then  thou  shalt  run  at  will ; 
But  all  the  world  must  dream  and  rest 
While  the  sun  hangs  asleep  on  high, — 
Wait  for  the  waking  wind  of  the  West 
Then,  my  little  bird,  fly. 


37 


A  HILL  ARAB 

MY  feet  have  loved  the  rough  rock  road, 
My  hands,  my  knife  so  keen ; 
My  heart  has  loved  the  far  and  near 
And  the  valleys  in  between. 

My  brow  has  loved  the  fresh  wet  wind. 
My  lips  the  kiss  of  rain ; 
My  eyes  have  followed  the  vulture's  flight 
Across  and  back  again. 

The  spices  that  Sirocco  blows 

From  dust  and  shrub  and  pine, 

And  the  drenching  dream  of  sunlight,  fill 

My  brain  like  thrilling  wine ; 

My  black  goats  dance  and  I  skirl  a  song 

On  this  double  reed  of  mine. 


38 


SYRIA 

FLEE  from  memory.  Canst  thou*? 
Leave  thy  children  dreamless. 
So  shall  they  reap  rich  fruits — 
The  fruits  of  gold  in  foreign  soil. 

Ghost  of  beauty — haunting  us ! 

Hand  stronger  than  a  mother's  calling  voice, 

Leave  thy  children  dreamless — 

Haunt  them  not  with  beauty  fairer  than  reality. 

Mirage !  yet  warmer  than  a  beating  heart, 

Dull  the  sunny  haze  that  hangs  over  the  market  place — 

Still   the   drowsy   chime   of  camel   bells   keeping  time  to  the 

shuffle  of  camel's  feet — 
Thy  children  dream :  .    .   . 

Thy  mountains  lift  winsome  pines,  each  with  its  treasured  dot 

of  shade, 
And  through  the  olive  groves  sheep  feed  slowly,  led  by  a  song. 
It  is  the   song  that  haunts   us.   A   song  keeps  thy  children 

dreaming. 
Above  the  stranger-city  a  vision  is  carried  in  a  song — Syria ! 


39 


MEMORIES 

A  Hilltop. 

WIND  and  sweet-scented  sun  and  golden  bushes, 
Wind  that  made  symphonies  in  sweeping  rushes 
Through  sighing  pine  and  tattling  sassafras 
O'er  floes  of  rock  adrift  in  seas  of  grass. 

Dawn. 

A  SPIDER  thread  held  both  my  hands 
I  was  a  prisoner,  I  knew. 
Yet  I  was  stung  to  nimbleness 
By  ice-cold  pricks  of  trodden  dew. 
The  breeze  pulled  slyly  at  my  hair, 
A  sunbeam  flashed  across  my  eyes — 
And  all  at  once  I  was  aware 
That  Fairyland  around  us  lies. 

Beirut — 1917. 

THE  plain  is  still — 
Down  curve  the  slumbrous  hills ; 
The  fountain  brim 
With  langorous  music  fills 
The  clear  soft  dark ; 
The  crescent  moon  distills 
Her  magic  light. 
And  it  is  night. 


40 


OCTOBER 

SING  not  in  plaint  the  changing  hour 
From  bud  to  blossom  and  to  fading  flower 
As  though  there  were  no  beauties  left  to  sing 
After  the  moment  of  the  Spring! 

The  rich  dark  line  of  moist  boughs  gracefully 

Lifts  through  the  garlands  of  that  loveliness 

That  we  call  Autumn ;  for  each  Summer  tree 

Before  she  tosses  off  the  leafy  dress 

That  would  be  cumbrous  in  her  winter  sleep, 

When  snows  must  wrap  her  in  their  clinging  white 

While  she  prepares  the  ever  new  delight 

Of  next  year's  Spring; — each  leafy  Summer  tree, 

Not  thinking  Spring  were  all,  but  Life  is  all. 

Makes  merry  her  farewell  to  laughing  play 

And  will  not  toss  her  fol-de-rols  away 

Without  this  last  display — 

Even  the  most  gaunt  casts  clouds  of  opal  glow 

About  her,  and  the  age-old  dignity 

Of  change  lends  quiet  to  the  waiting  air. 

Oh,  winds  be  still,  lest  one  flake  of  the  fair 

Rose-petaled,  prodigal  gold  and  opal  dream 

Fall  from  that  Maple  bending  to  the  stream, 

Anew  the  heart  is  caught  in  sweet  dismay 

Lest  such  exquisiteness  be  swept  away. 


41 


WIND  FLOWERS 

WE  are  old  as  the  mountains, 
Our  race  is  undying, 
By  road  or  field  furrow  our  colors  are  set — 
But,  young  as  the  sunset  glow 
Fleeting  and  flying 
Our  petals  ephemeral  none  may  forget. 

When  the  snowdrop  hangs  sweetly 

Contented  and  lone 

And  the  hyacinth  blue  gives  her  fragrance  for  naught, 

Anemones  people  the  hills  as  their  own 

And  flaunt  with  narcissus  a  beauty  unsought. 

Men  take  us  and  break  us ; 

One  moment  they  cherish 

Our  fragile  wild  beauty  of  fragrance  and  form; 

But  rather  than  uselessly  sicken  and  perish. 

Plucked  up — to  be  tossed  away — 

Give  us  the  Storm. 

The  Storm  is  our  brother 

The  breath  of  the  spaces 

The  soul  of  all  motion  unfettered  and  lone, 

And  we  are  incarnate  of  colors  and  graces, 

The  essence  of  dreamings  of  wind-weathered  stone. 

See,  all  through  the  time  of  our  budding  and  blowing 
The  wind  murmurs  softly  and  musingly  low, 
He  speeds  with  his  zephyrs  the  bees  in  their  going 
And  reverent  breathes  o'er  our  fragrance,  till  Lo: — 

He  sees  we  are  fainting,  we  are  not  immortal 
And  rather  than  witness  us  sicken  and  fall. 
Wide  open  he  flings  every  azure-bound  portal 
And  turbulent  thunder-clouds  answer  his  call. 


42 


They  trample  us  down  and  they  bury  us  under 

With  march  of  the  heavy  rain,  steady  and  grey, 

They  strive  to  make  Earth,  with  their  drumming  and  thunder, 

Forget  that  she  once  lived  so  laughing  and  gay. 

But  we  die  for  the  space  of  a  moment  of  sleeping. 
Quiescent  we  thrive  on  the  storm-driven  rain. 
We  gather  our  strength  till  its  bounds  are  past  keeping 
And  soon  all  the  Earth  is  a-flower  again. 

We  are  old  as  the  mountains. 

Our  race  is  undying, 

By  road  or  field  furrow  our  colors  are  set — 

But,  young  as  the  sunset  glow 

Fleeting  and  flying. 

Our  petals  ephemeral  none  may  forget. 


43 


THE  ANSWER 

SEEK  not  for  Poetry ! 
'Tis  but  a  flash  of  light 
Through  petals  shining, 
'Tis  but  a  thing  of  spirit 
Past  divining. 
Seek  not  to  find  her  soul. 
Be  great.  Since  first  man  thrilled 
To  all  the  God  in  Nature, 
God  has  willed 

That  only  with  much  labor  shall  men  see 
The  Vision  that  He  guardeth  jealously, 
Hiding  His  treasures  with  the  surest  hand 
Where  men  look  daily. 
Yet  may  never  understand. 


44 


FOR  A  FAIR  LADY'S  BURIAL 

SHROUDED  in  pearly  beauty, 
Flushed  as  a  rose,  new  blown, 
Keep  her,  forever  perfect. 
Locked  in  the  living  stone. 

So,  with  the  eyes  of  my  spirit. 
Till  earth  draws  its  last  long  breath, 
As  I  saw  her  lovely  in  sleeping 
May  I  think  of  her,  lovely  in  death. 


45 


SCOTCH  BROOM 

As  though  burnt  out  and  faded,  the  hot  sky 
^  Curves  high  and  ever  whiter,  whiter  hot 
To  where  the  sun,  at  his  most  cruel  noon. 
One  glowing  heart  of  fire,  blazing  burns. 
And  all  the  world  that  has  no  tree  or  rock 
To  shade  it  o'er  is  still  and  parched  and  dry ; 

But  near  me  bends  an  oak  to  frame  the  sky 

With  dark  and  prickly  shade,  and  near  its  root 

Spread  up  and  out  long  fingers  green  and  cool 

All  gemmed  with  gold.  Sweet,  fragrant  yellow  flowers 

Your  brightness  has  no  heat,  no  blighting  powers. 

But  purest  color  mixed  with  fragrance  rare 

Lends  balm  to  hills  more  feverish  than  fair. 


46 


THANKSGIVING  DAY 

OUR  lips  give  thanks  for  senses  gratified, 
For  all  our  wants  that  labor  hath  supplied 
Aided  by  Thine  increasing  bounteousness, 
Yet  in  our  hearts  there  moves  a  vague  distress ; 
Distress  of  soul  that  cries  out  to  believe, 
That  yearns  for  faith  and  finding  none,  doth  grieve ; 
That  finding  none  will  not  believe  naught  found, 
So,  like  a  caged  bird  pursues  its  round. 
God,  in  our  unbelief  for  Thee  we  seek, 
And  in  unworthy  hearts  we  pray  Thee  speak. 


47 


THERE  IS  NO  TIME 

GIVE  to  the  winds  your  sighing, 
They  will  take  it  and  whirl  it  away ; 
Give  to  the  gulls  your  crying 
As  afar  they  go  flying,  flying — , 
On  pinions  of  silver  grey. 

Give  to  the  foam  your  drifting. 
The  drifting  of  aimless  despair ; 
Hark  to  the  song  uplifting, 
As  down  from  the  sky  come  sifting 
The  snow-flakes  on  Christmas  air. 

Work,  till  your  hearts  firm  founded, 
Wakened  from  blinding  sleep, 
Trust  in  a  Love  unbounded. 
Peace  that  has  all  surrounded, 
There  is  no  time  to  weep. 


48 


MY  THOUGHTS 

WESTWARD  they  fly, 
Soft  breezes  blow  the  birds  across  the  sky 
And  fleets  and  archipelagoes  of  cloud 
Drift  on  the  outspread  wings  of  soaring  wind ; 
Trees  stretching  tingling  fingers  wide  and  high 
Make  clear-cut  shapes  of  lacelike  tracery, 
Each  one  a  masterpiece  worked  by  the  blind 
But  deftly  moving  fingers  of  the  Spring, 
That  magically  weaves  old  Winter's  shroud 
Into  a  robe  of  loveliness,  to  cling 
About  the  hills  and  down  the  vales  to  lie. 

Westward  they  fly. 

Following  fast  the  golden  shreds  that  sun 

Has  painted  with  the  purest  tints  of  fire. 

'Tis  Easter  evening,  calm  the  rivers  run 

Down  the  broad  valley.  From  a  pointed  spire 

Rings  a  slow  bell.  From  every  marsh  and  pool 

Sing  scores  of  tiny  voices,  eager,  high ; 

The  springtime  chorus;  frogland's  singing  school 

Is  with  whole-hearted  joy  taking  the  cool 

And  sedgy  shallow  for  its  evening  choir. 

And  darkly  rise  the  pines,  and  blue  the  hills ; 
The  West  grows  greyer,  edged  with  points  of  light, 
One  tiny  bird  its  evening  songlet  trills. 
The  grass  is  dainty  with  its  "bluets"  white. 
The  sun's  bright  fire  is  lost  in  vaporous  grey. 
The  islands  of  the  sky  like  dreamlands  lie, — 
My  thoughts  go  with  the  sun  where  it  is  day. 
Westward,  to  where  the  West  is  East,  they  fly. 


49 


THE  BEECH  TREE  VALLEY 

THERE  is  a  valley,  very  calm  and  still, 
And,  when  you  listen,  musically  low. 
The  rippling  chuckling  laughter  of  the  rill 
Lost  down  there,  makes  the  breezes  lighter  as  they  blow. 
All  through  the  valley  breathes  a  wild  woods  spell 
Wafted  and  woven  in  among  the  trees, 
Who  stand  like  children  with  a  dream  to  tell — 
Tip-toe  and  eager — catching  for  the  breeze 
That  lightly  through  the  valley  sighs  and  plays 
And  moves  the  mist  of  twigs  and  branches  so 
That  to  the  eyes  it  seems  to  weave  a  maze 
Of  wintry  loveliness  and  sunset  glow. 
Grey  beeches  in  the  Valley  of  the  Dreams, 
A  little  mountain  brooklet  lost  to  sight 
And  singing  to  itself,  almost  it  seems 
God  took  the  simplest  things  of  earth  to-night 
And  made  Himself  the  purest  song  of  praise 
That  ever  can  be  sung  through  all  this  old  world's  ways. 


50 


